Thursday, November 19, 2009

I had planned on sleeping off yet another somnolent November afternoon, but realizing I was headed for a complete one-eighty the moment my mother spoke to my father on the phone, I graciously allowed myself a short nap. Like most calls between my parents, it lasted long enough for me to dream about a universe not so different, but more wonderful, than our own. And in the middle of my driving a black Mercedes coupe while talking to a perfect stranger whose face I can no longer illustrate, I was awoken by my mother. Damn, I could practically feel the smooth leather seat of the Benz accommodating my butt. And I could almost see where the passenger and I were headed.

Before I came into my room I went outside to give our dog, Max, some water. No one else in the house ever gives him water after he has eaten. And so, if I were to be cast away to a deserted island for at least three days, I’m sure Max would die of thirst. Never mind that it constantly rains these days. Dogs don’t drink rain water. And I highly doubt Max would spend an iota of his strength licking water off the grass when he’s got better things to do like, oh I don’t know, destroy his house.

This morning as I was giving him a bath, I went on a muttering tirade on how big a pain in the ass he was. And as if he were a child fearing some serious spanking if he’d so much as blink while he was being reprimanded, he stood stoic. It was like giving some stuffed animal a bath; he didn’t move, which was totally unusual. But I was so irate that I continued to cuss at him. At one point, as I was lathering his mane, I imagined that he’d gone off his head and started gnawing on my face. And that I’d retaliate, of course, biting him on the back and pulling out his ears until they bled out. I had to stifle a laugh at my madness.

Having a dog is a responsibility, Especially one like Max who barks even at the leaves that fall from a tree. Imagine his exhilaration when a butterfly came fluttering above him; he barked like a crazed maniac running naked down the street. One time, he ceaselessly barked at the sky, and it was then that I thought of building a mental institution for deranged animals. Of course, reptiles would not be admitted. Never.

I think that people who decide to have a child should get a dog first. That way they experience hell first-hand. Not that having a child is hell, of course. Just that some people obviously think having one is all a bed of roses. Like having a cute little breathing doll sleeping in their arms is some trophy they could show their friends to prove their masculinity or femininity. Or to prove they can actually afford to feed a mouth. Having a child is more than being able to feed him. It’s more than having someone to pass your genes.